Revelation 1

I hope they don’t find this. They might not be very happy about it. But I think I need to get the word out.

I am keeping this account in between training sessions and missions.

 Here’s my story from the beginning.

My name is Frank Adams. When I was younger, I got pressured into drugs. I did marijuana, crack, meth, you name it. I got in deep.

Like a lot of folks, I ended up turning to stealing to get my next hit. My health was deteriorating. My folks were upset with me and kept trying to get me clean. But I resisted.

Even a bunch of my closest friends died. Wasting away after a wasted life. I don't like to think about it.
 

Then one day came my wakeup call.

Now, even though I was a junkie, I was always obsessively careful not to OD. I wanted to get high, not die. This also meant my stash could last longer. But I knew it was only a matter of time before I got so desperate for a fix that I didn’t bother with caution. And I’d seen what this shit does to people long-term.

But on this one day, things took a turn for the worse.  That was the first time I saw her. The lady with the umbrella. I didn’t think anything of it then, cause it was raining. And I didn’t see her features. She was too far away.

I only glimpsed her, but I remember shivering at the sight of her. I mean, I thought it was from being cold and wet. Soon enough I would know better.

A little while later, I was buying my next batch of meth at a mobile home in the middle of nowhere from my new dealer (the last one got nailed by the cops and got shivved in the showers) with money taken from my little brother’s piggy bank (I was a huge asshole back then). That’s when things got deadly.

Some guys, I guess rivals or whatever, started shooting up the place through the windows. Those dealers went down like flies and I got my ass into the next room. Turns out that was where they made the stuff. I quickly ducked behind a counter with all kinds of stuff on it. Pitchers, beakers, measuring spoons, glass pipes, lots of stuff. There were even used needles. I guess they used some themselves.

After a few moments the shooting stopped and there was a sudden, eerie quiet. I began to creep from my hiding spot when I bumped my head on the table and some stuff rolled off the edge.

Back in the other room, everyone was dead. My heart was pounding so hard, I was sure it was a heart attack. Sweat ran down my face, making it hard to see.

 I had to pull back and hide behind the edge of the door, cause the killers were now in the place, making sure their targets were dead, nudging them with their feet, their guns ready in case they needed to finish the job. “And that’s why you don’t fuck with us, piss-ants!” one said.

I could hear their footsteps coming closer to me, closer. I held my breath.

Just before they would have found me, they left.

I didn’t know what to do. Call the police? But I would go to jail, since I was buying at the time. I began pacing, since I think better when I walk.

I couldn’t decide what to do. Save my own skin, or do the right thing? I couldn’t go to prison again. I couldn’t do that to my brother (I wasn’t a complete asshole).

And I couldn’t live my life knowing I let a bunch of murderers free.

I started walking to the phone in the other room, but my foot slid on something and I fell. I fell on all the syringes that had fallen on the floor. Some of them were partially full.

And now the needles were sticking deep into my skin, on my arms, my stomach, even my face. I would’ve yelled for help if the world hadn’t faded away.

Fortunately I woke up in a hospital bed. Police found me after there was another call about the gunfire. I knew after that that the path I was going down was one I didn’t want to go down. And so I’ve been clean for years.

Not to say I haven’t had a craving from time to time. My memory isn’t so good anymore, either. That’s why I’ve gotta write as much of this as possible before I start forgetting important bits.